I hate poetry, but that’s probably because I can’t be bothered to stop long enough to interpret it. To me, everything must just sounds like everything else. Poetry these days is just people trying to imitate poets before them, writing about ordinary things in a style of grammar and language they barely understand.
It’s like modern artists. They beat their faces against a canvas until some interesting smear of blood appears, name it something like “Hunger Pains of a Starving Artist” or “A Field of Sunflowers,” and sell it to some wealthy family in New York looking to decorate their expensive apartment with lavish, modern trash.
There are no more great poets, artists, or orators. There hasn’t been a sane person for years who could shape the world with his speech or demand attention with just a single word. Those who possess this ability obtained it from a pact with Satan who always adds a lust for power and socially disfunctional mental disorders in with his deals. They start cults, fear the government is persecuting them for their religion, fight or take to seclusion, and die before their later years.
Maybe we could have that sane orator if we could actually speak English. This butchered form we call our English language is just word vomit. Stinky, nasty, dirty word puke that clogs the toilet at Buffallo Wild Wings.
